It was the summer when everything hummed, when the air itself seemed alive, buzzing with the breath of unseen wings. A million cicadas climbed out of the earth, split their delicate shells, and screamed their way into the hot, beating heart of July.

I was twelve, old enough to know better, young enough to still wonder. Billy and I spent the days wandering from one sun-drenched corner of town to the next, our shirts sticking to our backs, our hair damp with the sweat of endless afternoons. It was the kind of summer that felt like it would last forever, though we knew somewhere deep down it wouldn't.

"Do you think they feel it?" Billy asked one day, squinting up into the trees where the cicadas clung, their bodies vibrating with the rhythm of life. "Do they know it's their last summer?"

I shrugged, kicking a pebble down the cracked sidewalk. "I guess they don't think about it. They're just...doing what they do."

Billy nodded, though I could see in his eyes he wasn't satisfied. He always wanted answers I didn't have, answers that were too big for me to carry, much less understand.

The cicadas were everywhere that summer. They filled the air with their song, that relentless, rising crescendo that started slow, building up like a whisper growing into a shout, only to fade away into the thick, lazy heat of the afternoon. It was a sound that sank into your bones, the kind of sound that made you feel like something was happening, even when nothing was.

We wandered out past the town limits, toward the old quarry where nobody went anymore except for kids like us, with time to kill and secrets to uncover. The place felt ancient, older than any town or tree. Billy said it was cursed, and I didn't argue, even though I didn't believe in curses. Not exactly, anyway.

We stood on the edge of the quarry, peering down into the dark, still water. It was deeper than it looked, and no one knew what was at the bottom anymore. Just lost things, probably. Things people didn't want to think about.

"Hey," Billy said, turning to me, his eyes wide with that wild look he got sometimes when he had an idea that was both terrible and irresistible. "I bet no one's ever touched the bottom."

"Probably not," I said, though the thought of diving into that cold, black water made my stomach twist.

Billy took a step closer to the edge, looking down, his face a mask of curiosity and fear.

"Don't," I said, grabbing his arm before he could take another step. "It's not worth it."

He looked at me, and for a moment, I thought he'd argue, thought he'd laugh and shake me off. But instead, he stepped back, just an inch, and I let go of his arm.

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We sat there for a while, listening to the cicadas scream. I wanted to ask him why he always needed to go farther, always needed to find the edge of things. But I didn't. Maybe because I already knew the answer. Maybe because I felt it too, sometimes, when the quiet got too loud.

The days stretched on, one after another, each one a little hotter, a little heavier, like the summer was winding itself up for something we couldn't see coming. The cicadas kept singing, louder and louder, as if they knew their time was running out and they had to fill the air with their song before it was too late.

Then, one morning, Billy didn't come by. I waited for him on the front steps, the way I always did, but the sun climbed higher and higher and still no sign of him. I wandered over to his house, kicking the familiar path, my heart thudding with something I didn't want to name.

Billy's mom was on the porch when I got there, her hands twisting a dish towel. She didn't say much, just that Billy wasn't feeling well, that maybe it was the heat, or maybe just one of those things that happens when you've been out too long in the sun.

I went home, but nothing felt right. The air felt thicker, the cicadas louder, their song less like music and more like a warning.

The next day was the same. Billy didn't come by. His mom said he was still resting, and I knew enough not to ask too many questions. But the knot in my chest got tighter, and the world seemed a little dimmer without him there, without his questions that I could never answer.

And then, just like that, the cicadas stopped. One morning, I woke up and the air was still. No hum, no whir, no sound at all except the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. It was as if they'd never been there at all.

I went to Billy's house, and this time his mom didn't come to the door. The curtains were drawn, and everything felt closed, like a chapter in a book you'd never get to finish.

I sat on the steps for a long time, waiting. But the cicadas were gone, and so was Billy.

Years later, when the cicadas came back, I thought about that summer, about the quarry and the questions we never got to answer. And I wondered, not for the first time, if maybe Billy was right, if maybe the cicadas knew. Maybe, in their final days, they felt the weight of time pressing down on them, felt the world closing in. Maybe they sang so loud not because they were living, but because they knew what was coming.

And maybe, just maybe, we all do.